


A Regular Prince Charming

by sock_in_my_drawer



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Forced blow job, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Patrick Hockstetter is His Own Warning, Rape/Non-con Elements, Richie gets roofied, Told from Patrick Hockstetter's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23038309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sock_in_my_drawer/pseuds/sock_in_my_drawer
Summary: Patrick crashes Richie's senior prom and finds a way to entertain himself.
Relationships: Patrick Hockstetter/Richie Tozier
Comments: 6
Kudos: 89





	A Regular Prince Charming

**Author's Note:**

> I've toned down Patrick's undeniably high levels of insanity a little, at least compared to how he appears in the book, and there's no animal torture or sibling murder in his past, but he's still a Bad Guy. This hasn't been beta read, because I was afraid to tell anyone that I wrote this, so apologies for any typos or other weirdness. Feedback is very welcome, but no hate, please!
> 
> **You can scroll to the bottom for a detailed list of warnings for the fic. I'm always willing to add additional tags and warnings, just let met know if you need something tagged :)**

Crashing a prom two years after his own graduation isn’t exactly Patrick’s idea of a fun Friday night. They’re hunched under the stage, and the band that plays above their heads has been off-key all night, but at least they make enough noise to drown out Belch’s bitching about the busted tail light on his Firebird.

Patrick didn’t go to his own prom, none of them did, and looking at the sea of teenagers in their tuxedos and frilly dresses, swaying awkwardly to the first slow song of the night tells him he didn’t miss out on a damn thing. He fiddles with the cap of his flask as he drags his eyes across the dance floor, searching, searching, and ding ding ding, there they are. All the Losers have shown up for the dance in their rented tuxedos, and Patrick is kind of impressed to see that all of them have managed to score a date. The only one who’s missing is the wheezy kid who disappeared somewhere between ‘92 and ‘93, either because he left town or dropped dead, Patrick doesn't really care.

Not when he can entertain himself with the pure comedy that is Richie Tozier trying to dodge every awkward show of affection his date attempts to shower his way. Patrick snorts as Richie uses his gangly arms to keep her as far away as possible. There’s enough room for Jesus and fucking Buddha between them as they sway left and right, left and right.

There have been rumors about Richie Tozier since middle school, graffiti on bathroom walls and spray painted slurs on his locker door. Patrick can take credit for a lot of them, and he's pretty sure they're more than mere rumors as he observes the open panic on Richie's face when his date finally manages to rest her head against his shoulder, her crimped ponytail brushing against his chin. Richie abandons her on the dance floor before the song has hit its chorus, and his friends call after him as he makes a beeline for the exit, unaware of the curious eyes that watch him from the shadows under the stage.

Patrick puts his flask away and cracks his knuckles. Maybe the night can be salvaged after all. He snatches Victor’s comb from his back pocket and runs it through his greasy hair, arranging it behind his ears.

Henry lowers his bottle of Jack as he observes Patrick’s grooming. “You've got a hot date or something?”

“You could say that,” Patrick says, leering at his friends over his shoulder as he pushes through the tinsel that hangs over the edge of the stage.

There are a couple of stragglers in the hallway, making out against the lockers to the rhythm of the tinny music echoing from the gym. Patrick shoves his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and gives the little face-suckers a wink as he walks past them. He’s been gone from Derry High for two years, but the kids part from their kiss and plaster their backs against the lockers, staring at him like he’s wanted by the FBI.

And Patrick's definitely got a reputation, one that he’s worked hard to foster and grow since he was old enough to give a kid in his class a bloody nose. Most of the shit people say about him is true, but there are some exaggerations in the mix, and if people want to believe that he tortures small animals and eats babies for breakfast, well, it all works in his favor. Even the adults in Derry avert their gazes when Patrick and his friends make an appearance.

He sees Richie slip behind a row of lockers down the hall just as the girl he abandoned on the dance floor marches out of the gym, the angry clack-clack-clack of her heels bouncing off the walls as she looks for her lost date.

Patrick stalks to Richie’s non-existent hiding place, grinning from ear to ear when he sees the startled look his sudden appearance puts on Richie’s face.

“Out for a little stroll, Trashmouth?” Patrick asks conversationally.

“Aw shit, shit, shit.” Richie sinks his hands into his hair, his eyes darting between Patrick and his date, the sound of her heels drawing closer.

Patrick yanks his hands out of his pockets and glances over his shoulder. “Seems like someone’s looking for you… Should we call her over?”

“ _No_ ,” Richie hisses, eyes wide with panic behind his thick glasses. He looks ready to bolt, his entire body taut like a bow string as he whips his head left and right in search of a way out.

Patrick knows he has to act or he risks losing his prey. He grabs Richie’s arm, his smile disarming if not downright friendly. “Come on, Tozier, I know where you can hide.”

Richie resists, of course he does, the soles of his lacquered shoes skidding against the waxy linoleum, but it seems he’s even more reluctant to be dragged back to the dance floor, because he takes one look at his date and follows Patrick down the dark hallway.

“Over here,” Patrick whispers as he leads Richie to an unmarked door next to the chemistry lab. He reaches into his combat boot and pulls out his jack-knife, savoring the flash of fear he sees on Richie’s faze as he flicks the blade out. “Relax, kid,” Patrick snorts, dropping down to one knee to pick the lock on the door. It clicks open after some forceful jamming and Patrick gives Richie a little bow as he holds the door open for him. “After you, sweetheart.”

Richie rolls his eyes, but he slips into the dark closet, his breaths loud in the silence that settles between them when Patrick closes the door.

“What the hell is this place?” Richie asks, his voice shrill and a little frantic. “I can’t see a thing!”

Patrick waves his hand through the air in search of the cord he knows is somewhere between the door and the shelf of cleaning supplies to his right. He finds it after some fumbling and they both blink as their eyes adjust to the sudden brightness from the exposed light bulb.

Richie has backed himself into a corner, his palms flat against the chipping paint on the wall, and it’s probably instinctual by now, this need to cover his back around Patrick. His hair whips against his cheeks as he looks around, taking in his surroundings. “Is this the janitor’s closet? Really? You brought me into the fucking janitor’s closet?” Richie asks, looking at Patrick like he’s some kind of romcom cliche.

“Feel free to step out any time,” Patrick drawls. He moves away from the door, letting Richie believe he’s free to walk away, only because Patrick knows he won’t.

Richie doesn’t respond, but the knowledge that he’s managed to escape from his date seems to relax him. He walks around the cramped space, poking his fingers against the cleaning supplies on the shelves like they’re something genuinely interesting when it’s obvious that he’s just looking for an excuse to ignore Patrick.

That’s okay. Patrick can wait.

Richie does eventually turn around and it’s obvious that his guard is still up, because he looks at Patrick like he’s something wild and rabid. “Why’d you help me, Hockstetter?” Richie asks, eyes narrowed.

“Why’d _you_ run away from your date? Slow-dancing to shitty cover songs not your thing, Trashmouth?” Patrick shoots back.

“Come on, no one’s called me that since middle school,” Richie grumbles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his ill-fitting dress pants.

Patrick tilts his head, his smile playful even as his voice takes on a cruel note. “Oh, my apologies. Do you prefer Flamer?” he sneers.

The line of Richie’s shoulders grows tense under his padded jacket, and there’s a flash of fire in his eyes as he glares at Patrick through his fringe.

Patrick likes that fire, but he isn’t after a fist fight, not tonight. “Would you believe me if I told you I was just trying to be nice?”

“Fuck no,” Richie snorts, and Patrick shoots him a sheepish grin. He can't really blame the guy for doubting his sudden act of chivalry, not with their history.

They fall quiet after that and Patrick reaches under the hem of his button up, wrapping his fingers around the flask that’s pressed between the waist of his jeans and the jut of his hip bone. He uncaps it and pretends to take a sip before he shakes it in front of Richie’s face, like a peace offering, one that Richie accepts even as his eyes remain wary.

Patrick sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as he watches Richie wrap his fingers around the flask, the long column of his throat on full display as he tilts his head back and takes a sip.

Richie makes a face at the taste, the pink tip of his tongue poking out as he pushes his glasses up his nose and hands the flask back to Patrick. “What the fuck is that? You spike your booze with Lysol or something?”

Patrick ignores the question, pretends to take another swig and offers the flask back to Richie. He has no idea how the shit Victor's cousin sold to him works, so it's best to play it safe. Richie brings the flask to his lips like he didn't just bitch about the taste, and Patrick feels a little giddy as he glues his eyes to the bounce of Richie’s Adam’s Apple. He was prepared to do way more cajoling, but Richie’s astounding lack of self-preservation is making things much easier than he’d expected.

Patrick folds his arms over his chest and watches Richie from the shadow of his brow, the corner of his mouth curling up with a sardonic grin. “You know, you really shouldn’t accept drinks from strangers,” he says, like he’s making an observation about the weather.

Richie’s entire body twitches at the words, his face caught between confusion and mounting fear as he eyes the flask in his hand. “The hell are you talking about? I’ve known you since you dunked my head into a toilet in middle school.”

"Oh yeah, that's a good memory." Patrick takes a step closer and Richie is forced to look up, because even the growth spurts he’s had after Patrick’s graduation don’t put them eye to eye. He’s made even smaller by his shitty posture, like he’s visibly uncomfortable in his newly stretched out body.

"What the shit..." Richie shoves his fingers behind his glasses to rub at his eye, reeling like he's got a sudden case of vertigo.

"You okay there, Tozier?" Patrick grins, circling behind Richie's back. 

“W-what do you mean?” Richie stutters, spinning around the moment Patrick slips out of his sight. He drops the flask at his feet and backs against the nearest flat surface, which turns out to be the door. Patrick laughs at the high-pitched squeak that slips from Richie’s lips when he realizes it’s locked.

He closes the gap between them with one long stride and smacks his palm against the door, inches away from Richie’s face. “Leaving so soon?”

Richie flinches and stares up at Patrick with eyes that are starting to go a little hazy.

“You really shouldn’t have accepted that drink,” Patrick scolds, unable to hide the thrill that shoots through his spine as he watches Richie shuffle his weight from foot to foot in an attempt to maintain his balance.

The laced booze works much faster than Patrick expected, and he’s caught almost off-guard when Richie’s legs give out and he slumps into Patrick’s arms.

“Hey, hey, easy, easy,” Patrick murmurs, petting Richie’s hair as he slips one arm around his waist and cradles him against his chest.

“What… did you… do to me?” Richie pants, his head lolling against the hard line of Patrick’s shoulder.

“I didn’t do anything,” Patrick says, and he manages to sound so innocent that he almost believes his own lie. “ _You’re_ the one who chose to drink from my flask.”

Richie’s gone completely limp when Patrick drags him away from the door, but his bird bones don’t weigh much. Patrick lowers him to the floor and props his back against the wall, right next to a rusty bucket and a collection of mops. Richie looks like a doll, limbs loose and head tilted back as he stares at Patrick with half-lidded eyes, his gaze unfocused. He used to be the most awkward-looking member of the group of social rejects he hangs out with, but Patrick's gotta admit that the kid has grown into his looks. He’s still got the overbite Patrick and his friends made fun of for years, not to mention the coke bottles he calls glasses, but fuck if that plush mouth of his doesn’t get Patrick going.

He squeezes his cock through the stiff fabric of his jeans and uses his other hand to unbuckle his belt as he considers his options.

Patrick likes to live in the moment, which means he didn’t really plan any of this beyond lacing the contents of his flask. He’s not prepared for the mess of trying to pop Richie’s actual cherry, but that’s okay. There’s another hole he can fuck.

Patrick kneels down between Richie’s spread legs and brushes his knuckles against the flushed arch of his cheekbone. Richie lets out a quiet whine when Patrick removes the glasses from his nose and tosses them on the floor. He’s probably as blind as a bat without them, and Patrick feels a jolt of arousal as he thinks of how helpless Richie must feel with his world reduced to a hazy blur.

The thought turns him fully hard and has him straining against his palm as he lets his hand wander down the narrow expanse of Richie’s chest to feel the way it rises and falls with his labored breaths, like he's a fish on dry land. He reaches between Richie’s thighs and wraps his fingers around the outline of his cock, fondling him through his pressed pants, but Richie stays as limp as the rest of his body.

Whatever.

Patrick palms himself a little harder and brushes two of his fingers against Richie’s bottom lip, pressing down until Richie’s jaw loosens and his mouth falls open. “That’s it, you little slut," he murmurs, fucking his fingers against the wet slip of Richie’s tongue. “You wanna suck my cock?”

Patrick doesn’t expect Richie to answer, and he blinks, a little surprised, when he feels Richie’s mouth move around his fingers.

“Patrick,” Richie slurs like one of the drunks that hang around the creepy house on Neibolt. “Please...”

It’s easy to pretend that Richie is begging for a taste of Patrick’s cock, and Patrick nods as he rubs his thumb against the smooth line of Richie’s jaw. “Yeah, you’re gonna get it,” he pants, getting back on his feet.

His belt buckle clanks against the floor as he drops his jeans down to his ankles and reaches behind Richie’s neck, cradling his head as he gets into position. Richie’s mouth falls open, his jaw completely relaxed, and Patrick has to squeeze his fingers around his cock to keep himself from coming at the sight.

Jesus Christ, he should have done this ages ago.

“You ready to suck your first cock, Tozier?” Patrick grins, and he’s one hundred percent certain that this really is Richie’s first time sucking cock, no matter what people write about him on bathroom walls. Closet cases like him don’t have a lot of options in Derry.

Richie whines, and his gaze wanders aimlessly as Patrick presses the head of his cock against the pink seam of his lips.

“ _Fuck yeah_.”

It’s so good, the wet heat of Richie’s pliant mouth. He’d like to take it slow, but it’s hard to hold back as he stares at the way Richie’s lips mold around his cock, how Richie is starting to drool around his girth, the gurgles that rise from his throat eating away at Patrick’s self-control.

He grabs a fistful of Richie’s hair to hold him still, snapping his hips with so much force that Richie gags, his dazed eyes rolling back in their sockets. Patrick brushes his thumb over the trail of spit that bursts out from the corner of Richie’s mouth and wipes it on his hollowed cheek.

“Always knew you were made for this, with a cock-sucking mouth like yours,” Patrick pants as he starts to fuck with more purpose, pushing so deep that he sees the muscles in Richie’s throat strain with it.

Richie mewls like a kitten, hot puffs of air blowing out of his nostrils. His arms hang at his sides, limp and useless, his knuckles knocking against the floor in time with Patrick’s thrusts. It’s not hard to pretend that he wants to be used, doesn’t put up a fight because he loves Patrick’s cock in his mouth.

Patrick tightens his grip on Richie’s hair, his fingers digging into his scalp, and he knows it’s almost over. He struggles to decide if he wants to shoot his load down Richie’s throat or on his pretty face, but the thought of leaving a visible mark on Richie has him pulling out just as his orgasm blooms in his gut.

Richie flinches as the bridge of his nose is hit with a slick glob of come. Patrick aims the next two spurts at the corner of one heavy-lidded eye and the arch of Richie’s cheekbone before wringing the last couple of drops on his well-fucked mouth.

“Yeah, look at that,” Patrick pants, admiring his handiwork. "Wish I had a camera, because this is a real kodak moment."

Richie slumps forward like a broken marionette the moment Patrick lets go of his hair, his chin digging into his bowtie as he lets out a breathless whine.

Patrick pulls his jeans up and rakes his fingers through his hair as he catches his breath. He has no idea if Richie’s gonna remember any of this, but he kind of hopes he will. He wants Richie to know who marked him. He pockets his flask and leans down to give Richie’s cheek a little slap, a gentle one, because he’s a regular prince charming tonight.

“Catch you on the flip side, flamer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: manipulation, use of ketamine as a date rape drug (probably not a very accurate portrayal), Patrick fucks Richie's mouth in a cramped space and it gets a little rough and messy towards the end, Richie can't consent or fight back because he's been drugged.


End file.
